


wreathed boy on a hill

by crystallizedcherry



Series: Spabel Week 2016 [4]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Andalusia, Day 4: Century, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-21
Updated: 2016-07-21
Packaged: 2018-07-25 20:25:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7546499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crystallizedcherry/pseuds/crystallizedcherry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He climbed up to find a pair of sandals, those were in Roman style.</p>
            </blockquote>





	wreathed boy on a hill

hetalia – axis powers © hidekazu himaruya  
_the author hereby claims that there was no profit gained in the making, written on entertaining purpose_.

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#

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He was crowned with a wreath made from leaves unknown, with a foreign smell he thought originated from faraway lands, as if coming from something a sun kissed for (too) long; synaesthesied as dry and brown.

The coronation fell on such a solemn ceremony, with prasing God the Almighty as the start and the end, to emphasize that everything began in His hand and would end in His decision. _They_ came with foreign tongue, but it was amazing that he could understand it in no time; he and _they_ mingled as if the fate smoothed its way—and their prayers in the ceremony were in the language—

—ended up in him started to spell _vandal_ in more ‘adapting’ way to their speaking,

_andalusia_.

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Then he, one day, on his way sneaking out from a caravan commisioned to fetch goods brought from Near-East in _Jabl Thariq_ , he kicked his sandals when climbing a greeny-grassy hill. Not for a special purpose, only his favorite way to spend spare times with nature. How Mother Earth tickled his feet with its children ( _grass, rock, thorns, nothing was better than the other_ ), he was never content enough of it.

A pair of sandals was also left, on halfway of his little adventure.

But this one was more- _Roman_. Woody footwear with long straps reaching knees, and certain aura he knew it was familiar. He remembered the strange smell, of one usually emerged on battle. Blood, sweat; victorious aroma. He couldn’t depict it well but he knew—he experienced the similar one when he witnessed a fierce war between two groups of people playing vicious drama and epoch with their swords and rigorous screams, real blood there, but he was not sure whether it was merely part of his dream or something he had seen for real.

_(Vandal and Roman were connected, though.)_

The surprising thing was, the suspected owner of it was not a muscular, or battleworn lad having his day out too, like he was.

A petite girl, wreath of ivy and red little flowers, facing the sunset, humming Latin phrases, _alis volat propriis, alis grave nil, alis volat propiriis_.

He reluctantly reached, with his baby steps, and he balled his olive-tinted tiny fist.

She heard the footsteps, and she turned.

She muttered under her breath, without being aware of it, “... _Rosa rubicundior, lilio candidior, omnibus formosior, semper in te glorior_ ....”

He replied beyond his realization, “... _Helw helw law ‘aam min in-noom, wal-wehš wehš law_ _ġasal wiššu kull yoom.”_


End file.
